


Between Light and Nowhere

by midnightair



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 10:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15906225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightair/pseuds/midnightair
Summary: Hecate Hardbroom is tired. Not just tired, but exhausted. The frost has receded with the relighting of the Founding Stone, but Hecate still feels the memory of ice in her veins.//Hecate after the season 2 finale, dealing with the trauma.





	Between Light and Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing TWW fic so please be kind [eyes emoji] I'm in serious awe of the quality I've seen in this fandom and hope I can do it some semblance of justice with my own humble contribution.
> 
> [Title from Anthony and the Johnson's Hope There's Someone]

Hecate Hardbroom is tired. Not just tired, but exhausted.

 

The celebrations have at last died down, and a hush of quiet has settled over the castle; but while Hecate enjoys the silence most other nights - looks forward, in fact, to that sweet moment when even the last girl has shut her eyes and dozed off, cat curled contentedly at her feet - she cannot shake the echo of that frosty stillness that had permeated the walls of Cackle’s Academy just hours before.

 

The frost has receded with the relighting of the Founding Stone, but Hecate still feels the memory of ice in her veins.

 

Sleep beckons her, and doesn’t. Though her eyelids are leaden, Hecate dreads the wide expanse of her bed, which has never seemed so uninviting; hesitates, too, at the thought of undressing. Most nights, there is relief in the reverse transformation that shrinks the formidable Hecate Hardbroom into someone rather smaller and much more vulnerable than Her. Tonight, she dreads her unbecoming. Clothed, she is contained, held upright by the whalebone structure she likes to wear around her middle that supports her posture and strengthens her spine.

 

Tonight, she is afraid of faltering as soon as she steps out of the armour of her heavy brocade dress, of unravelling with the release of her hair from its tightly wound bun.

 

Despite the bone-deep tiredness, the trauma of the day has settled deeper still.

 

Hecate has tried to work, and tried to read, but the words refuse to reveal their sense to her; it matters little whether they are penned by a first year student or a revered academic. She cannot focus on the written page, and she cannot focus her magic. It fizzles in her fingertips, barely enough to light sparks among the kindling in her bedroom’s fireplace - and these take much longer to grow into red hot flames. Eventually, they offer a warmth that may suffuse the chamber, but which does not even reach her skin, no matter how close she stands to the fire. Her hands, never particularly warm, feel like ice tonight.

 

Minutes pass before Hecate gives up the effort, moving instead across the room to stand by the window, arms wrapped around herself as she gazes out into the darkness. The late October winds move in the trees outside, letting them wave gently back and forth, ghostly and quiet in the distance. The night itself is cloudy, which adds to Hecate’s sense of oppression: that she cannot see the stars speckled into the night sky robs her of comfort, and her magic still feels too fragile for a weather spell of such magnitude that it would break apart the thick cover of clouds, revealing the hidden universe behind it.  

 

Her magic.

 

She closes her eyes and seeks out the powers within: still small, but there, growing again in strength. Yet the fear of losing them is still acute. Too searing is the memory of being power _less_ , and Hecate knows it will not fade easily. All her life she has thought of her magic in absolutes, has never once considered that she could ever be without. Today was too close a call to ever forget.

 

Thinking back, Hecate feels the guilt and the regret accumulating in her chest. So many things she should have done, or done differently at least. In the privacy of her rooms, she cannot deny her own faults, cannot deny the rush of relief she’d felt when Ethel stepped forward to offer her powers instead of Hecate herself. Cannot deny the embarrassment of being left to mortal devices, of being _winded_ after walking up the stairs.

 

Without her powers, she is nothing.

 

Less, even, than without her uniform, her armour. Without her powers life would not be worth living, and Hecate’s heart aches for Esmeralda with the sudden clarity of what this sort of loss can mean. She feels a loathsome sting in the corners of her eyes and stubbornly blinks it back. At least today was not in vain: perhaps the knowledge that one talented young witch has regained what has rightfully been hers since birth is all one needs to move on.

 

Ada has certainly acted as if it did, not a wavering in her smile as she was watching the girls celebrate. Hecate, however, still does not feel as free. Though Ada’s strategy may well be the right course to take - all children are, after all, safe, and soundly tucked away in bed by now - the day’s events have been far too scarring for Hecate to simply shut her eyes, to let sleep wipe clean the slate. She cannot forget so easily - will not forget so easily. Her perspective has been tilted; the memory of being frozen solid, so completely drained of magic - of her very _essence_ \- still sends a shiver down her back, sharp pin pricks along her spine. The more she tries to push it aside, the more potent it seems to become -

 

and when she does close her eyes, all she sees is pale blue ice.

 

It seems as if she might buckle under the weight after all, as if her legs will simply bend and crumple, incapable of holding up her weight. The formidable Hecate Hardbroom brought to her knees at last - and by nothing more than one child’s fancy.

 

Ethel Hallow really should have known better than to take the stone, Hecate thinks for the thousandth time today, and grinds her teeth. If only the girl would receive the punishment she is undoubtedly due - but Ada will not put more strain on the school’s relationship with Ursula Hallow, despite all that has happened.

 

Chest constricted, fingers holding on to the windowsill as if her life depends on it, Hecate heaves a sigh, a sob, or something in between, and all but jumps out of her skin when at that moment there is a knock on the door.

 

A knock and someone brave enough to enter without waiting for her response. Hecate is too startled to object at the sight of Pippa Pentangle, wild eyed with her pink hat perched askance on top of windblown hair.

 

“Hecate!”

 

“Pippa --”

 

Both voices briefly break through the oppressive silence that quickly falls again as they pause and stare: the shock is drawn on Hecate’s face, in the pursed lips and raised brows, while Pippa’s eyes roam over the figure of her old friend from a distance - afraid to find some visible fault, relieved when they do not.

 

“I heard,” Pippa breathes again into the dim light of the room, foregoing the traditional greeting as her anxiety for Hecate overwhelms any sense of propriety. The door falls into its lock behind her as she leans her broom against the wall and takes some steps forwards. “I came as quickly as I could,” she ventures to explain her unannounced appearance further, feeling bashful suddenly - afraid she is unwanted; but her care and concern win as they always do. The few remaining feet between them are crossed with haste, while Hecate continues standing still, dark and unmoving like a statue.

 

It takes all the self-control she has to stand up straight, her grip on the marble sill even tighter. Pippa does not see the workings of Hecate’s mind and muscles, but rushes forward, throws her arms around the stock-stiff body.

 

“You’re alright, please say you’re alright,” Pippa begs in a half-whisper, so close to Hecate’s ear that she feels hot breath on her neck.

 

“I am,” is Hecate’s response, words strangled in her throat; and while it must sound utterly unconvincing, Pippa accepts it without questioning, hugging Hecate even harder.

 

“I found out so late,” Pippa says after a while, voice muffled in the fabric of the deep black dress, and takes another breath or two, inhaling deeply the scent that is so uniquely _Hecate_ , before she loosens the embrace enough to see Hecate’s face. “It sounded like some sick joke at first,” she goes on to explain, eyes searching the other’s for answers, “the Founding Stone, the ice… But it happened, didn’t it?”

 

Hecate swallows dry and hard and gives a nod that’s nearly imperceptible. Pippa cries out her name in return, and moves her hands to cup Hecate’s face. “You are _alright_ , aren’t you?” Pippa repeats her question, examining the features before her with more scrutiny, looking for signs of harm, or even signs of irritation; but Hecate is too exhausted to resist, or to wind herself from Pippa’s arms. Instead, she feels the tug of want and need inside her chest, and longs to fall back into the warm embrace.

 

She doesn’t, of course. Despite the day’s events, despite her frayed nerves, the tiredness, the tension she contains within her body, Hecate will not break or crumble. Not in private, and certainly not in front of Pippa Pentangle.

 

But while her body is held up by pure willpower and the iron grip on the window sill, Hecate’s face is less controlled.

 

Some muscles slip: a whispered sign of desperation flits across Hecate’s features causing a hairline tear in her carefully constructed mask that would be imperceptible to anyone but Pippa, who is standing mere inches apart from her, who could always read her better than anyone else, and who now jerks back, eyes open wide.

 

“Tell me what happened, Hecate,” Pippa begs, hands falling from her friend’s face to grip at her shoulders, and there’s a tremor in her throat, her fear that anything could have harmed Hecate not quite assuaged. In her grip, Hecate starts to tremble, fingers slipping from their hold on cold marble to hold onto Pippa herself.

 

Pippa, whose magic remains unimpeded, spends little time on thought before she transfers the pair of them to the sofa, where Hecate resists the pillows’ call and perches at the edge of it, though she is glad to have the upholstery’s support. “Tell me,” Pippa prompts again, her hands still resting on Hecate’s arms. She scoots closer, seeking out cold fingers to warm between her palms. “You’re cold as ice,” she mutters, eyes dropping to both their hands in Hecate’s lap. There is a surge of panic, threatening to spill, but Pippa holds on to the few things her friend has spoken. Had Hecate Hardbroom lost her magic, the rumour surely would have spread as fast as that of the ice at Cackle’s, if not faster. And still, she does not dare to formulate the question in her mind, does not dare to give a voice to her fears.

 

Under Pippa’s insistent gaze, Hecate eventually relents: recounts what happened in a hushed and halting voice, so unlike the persona she portrays in public. Pippa keeps hold of Hecate’s hands, though they will not warm despite her grasp, and slides closer still, so that their thighs are almost touching. She makes few interruptions, leaving it up to Hecate to guide the narration, letting her reclaim a certain degree of authorship, and with it power over her memories of helplessness. Whenever the force of it all makes it difficult for Hecate to go on, she focuses on the feeling of skin on skin, on the small circles Pippa’s thumbs are rubbing on Hecate’s hands. She feels a charge in these movements, and in closing her eyes, she can almost imagine her own powers growing stronger again in Pippa’s presence. She breathes in and finds an anchor in Pippa’s eyes, still firmly set on her own, feels the warmth of her presence even through the fabric of both their dresses.

 

There is no way around Mildred Hubble in this story, and as soon as Hecate mentions her, Pippa exclaims the name with a tinge of guilt at not having spared a thought for her before. “She’s not harmed, is she?” It’s her first interjection, fuelled by a sudden worry for the girl.

 

“No, she isn’t,” Hecate concedes, her sternness betrayed by the soft expression in her face. “She saved Cackles yet again,” she admits with a sigh, and Pippa smiles warmly at the memory of the bright young girl, relief shining in her eyes. “It was Miss Mould who ultimately relit the Stone,” Hecate continues, skipping to the end of the tale, “and it was only thanks to Mildred that she did.” There is no doubt that Hecate is grateful for the deed that has absolved her of her own responsibility: it’s a great sacrifice, and serves as punishment as well, though after her own recent experience, Hecate wonders if taking the powers of a witch - not just for one, but thirteen generations - is fit for any crime they might commit.

 

There is a lump forming in her throat that will not be swallowed, and Hecate can feel the tremor in her limbs again. “We’d still be frozen if it weren’t for the two of them.” The words are soft and Pippa hears the strain in them, sees now what has been eating at her friend. “Oh Hecate,” she replies, tears suddenly brimming in her eyes, “but you’re not.” She leans even closer to the immovable body next to her and pulls Hecate into a hug. Under the touch of her sympathetic hands, Pippa can feel the muscles in Hecate' back and shoulders begin to relax; and finally, Hecate allows herself to sag into the outspread arms, deflating at the contact.

 

She clings to the pink dress for a while, and wonders if she needs to elaborate. If she has to spell out her fears of losing her powers, if she has to explain how awful it felt - or if Pippa will understand it all without the explicit words and phrases.

 

The embrace offers more comfort to her than Hecate would care to admit. She closes her eyes and feels the tendrils of sleep reaching out for her as Pippa’s flowery perfume invades the icy stillness she sees in her mind with dots of colour. Pippa’s hands move against her again, drawing bigger circles, moving upwards to pick pins out of Hecate’s hair. Eventually, Pippa murmurs a sweet “you’re safe” as she releases the silken mass from its hold and digs her fingers into it, tips moving against Hecate’s scalp.

 

“You must be exhausted,” Pippa guesses, and Hecate nods against her shoulder, too tired to speak, tongue heavy in her mouth. And it seems Pippa does understand from what she’s heard that there is trauma to be dealt with, that there are many things keeping Hecate awake. She also understands, by the way Hecate’s body has grown as malleable as heated wax in her arms, that she needs Pippa’s presence to relax. She places a reassuring kiss on Hecate’s temple and lets her magic do the work with Hecate’s silent consent. Pippa takes her time and care, replacing Hecate’s dress with a nightgown, removing her make up with one swift motion of her hand, and brushing through Hecate’s hair in long, languid motions.

 

Though Hecate’s breathing has steadied, Pippa knows she isn’t asleep before she transfers both of them to bed. At last, the embrace dissolves, and Hecate opens her eyes again to watch as Pippa tucks her into bed with a loving glow on her face that seems almost maternal, a tenderness that recalls memories of their shared youth. Hecate’s heart spills over with unspoken gratitude - that Pippa is here at all, that she is doing everything Hecate needs. That she knows, instinctively, what to say and how to act.

 

Perhaps tomorrow, after she has slept, the words will come more easily; perhaps tomorrow Hecate will be able to admit just how much Pippa’s presence means to her.

 

Pippa lingers on the edge of the bed, resumes feather-light strokes over Hecate’s hair: a meditative motion that steadily brushes aside the fear, the ice. Hecate’s eyes flutter shut, and she sighs, releasing some of the anguish she has bottled up inside. There’s something about Pippa that has always made her feel safe, as if nothing could harm her. Briefly, she wonders if tonight, there is some sort of protective spell at work - if there are rainbows of modern magic floating up above - but brushes aside the thought with a quirk of the lips.

 

She isn’t sleeping, not quite yet, when she feels Pippa move, the stroking motions stilling. Hecate cracks open her eyes again unwillingly, and catches Pippa’s wrist in a tentative and gentle grip. “Will you stay?”

 

For just one moment, Hecate thinks that Pippa might brush off her request, that she will simply leave again; for just one moment, Hecate thinks it’s what she’d deserve for all her past mistakes.

 

But Pippa is not one to hold on to grudges, and has not a single thought of long forgotten strife in her mind. The smile on her lips seems to suffuse her entire body in welcoming light as she nods and bends down to brush her mouth against Hecate’s forehead. “I’ll stay,” she promises in a whisper. Hecate nods and her eyes drift shut again. She clings to wakefulness another minute longer - just long enough to feel the soft weight of Pippa next to her, to feel the feather brush of Pippa’s fingers in her hair again.

 

This may not be enough to erase her painful memories, but it is enough to send her softly towards sleep, towards its healing powers, and to a brighter day ahead.


End file.
